Sometimes, Clark, you are pretty much the only thing that makes me want to get up in the morning.
Morning, it touches the nerves quickly as if we were already in the hunter’s sights. The body yawns and stretches in the light. The pilgrimage is about to begin.
If everything’s the same, then there aren’t any choices! I want to wake up in the morning and decide things!
Every morning was a cheerful invitation to make my life of equal simplicity, and I may say innocence, with Nature herself.
Let me wake up next to you, have coffee in the morning and wander through the city with your hand in mine, and I'll be happy for the rest of my fucked up little life.
If it is a good morning, which I doubt.
Morning made a considerable difference in my general prospect of Life, and brightened it so much that it scarcely seemed the same.
So fine was the morning except for a streak of wind here and there that the sea and sky looked all one fabric, as if sails were stuck high up in the sky, or the clouds had dropped down into the sea.
Morning is an important time of day, because how you spend your morning can often tell you what kind of day you are going to have.
But don’t you ever wake up in the morning and feel like wearing something different? There must be something else in your wardrobe.
Saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life. There was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips. There was cheer in every face and a spring in every step.
The morning was, therefore, a mixture of a plenitude of densities, from the presence of the placid birds, to the mundane premonition, to the spring of small glisters which accompanied that autumnal rain. The music, in a simple whistle, recreated a new universe with the parish and all the hearts that were witness to it – padre, pigeons, swallows, the world! – were clothed in a new carnivalesque colouring: a celebration from within.